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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254855">ARCHIVES.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue000jay/pseuds/blue000jay'>blue000jay</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Secure, Contain, Protect [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - SCP Foundation, SCP AU, sleepy bois inc - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:27:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,270</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254855</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue000jay/pseuds/blue000jay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens next?</p><p>(SCP AU, a continuation of my work CLASSIFIEDS and possibly CONFIDENTIALS someday as well!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dave | Technoblade &amp; Phil Watson, Dave | Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade &amp; Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit, TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Secure, Contain, Protect [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021857</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Completed fics I read, Crow Cult's DSMP Favorites, Found family to make me feel something</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>ARCHIVES.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>wrote a bit about tommy for fun! might do some more someday, but. we'll see!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tommy thinks he was ten when his inventory first showed up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t really remember too much from his childhood. It’s an unfortunate side effect of being put under so many times-- of being forced to forget. Everything’s fuzzy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can remember school, bits and pieces of public life. There’s a vivid image of a movie theatre, of popcorn. He can think about his father and know that he was not there by choice. He can remember a song (it’s a tune, no words) and the warmth of lips on his forehead. Smells stick with him the most-- he can be struck so hard by them that sometimes he’s thrown into the past without a second glance, remembering a scene with vivid intensity that’s gone by the time the smell has passed; these memories are like dreams that he can half-remember in the morning. He can remember a Christmas tree. He can remember the day his inventory first showed up, and how he’d shown his mother eagerly what he could do. He can remember her laugh. Tommy had shown his power off at school, inventorying half of the classroom before being scolded and told to return it all. He can remember his mother’s worried smile, how the teachers at school avoided him and passed him around between them like a beach ball. That was fairly normal. He’d always been the energetic problem child, but one day had been different. He’d shown up at home to men in grey suits and agents in dark clothing, who took him from his mom and never let him go back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been seven years since then, and Tommy has gone back to his childhood home all of three times. The first had been after they’d escaped the first time, when Phil had flown him and Tubbo practically all night. When they’d stopped, Phil had done... </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> and then Techno and Wilbur were there, although looking a bit more ragged than they felt. They all slept in an exhausted pile in Phil’s arms, hiding out in the safe house Techno had let them crash in. None of them took any bedrooms-- they just used Phil and his wings instead. They sure were soft enough to be almost like beds. The next day, Tommy had risked a peek outside and realized where they were. He knew where they were. Faintly. Like a buzz in the back of his brain. It had taken him three days to convince Techno to let him go outside again, and when he did, he beelined for the first place he could remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stood outside for a while, staring at the blue front door of their home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother pulled into the driveway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Got out of the car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Went inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy stood there, then made his way around the side of the house to a window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking inside, there was no one. No evidence of anyone his age, either. Just a house. No pictures in the living room, nothing on the walls. It looked like someone single and without children lived there-- every tiny spark of his existence had disappeared, and it was the Foundation’s fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy returned to the safe house with a sinking heart and pretended he was fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really was fine. He had Phil, Wilbur, Techno, and Tubbo now. They were his family-- he could remember more about his life with them than with his mother, after all. They were the ones he laughed with, annoyed, and chased around the safe house day after day. Tubbo was the one he spent hours going over papers with, checking spellings and working through maths. Phil was the one who ruffled his hair and gave him a feather and told him it was going to be alright whenever he woke from nightmares. Wilbur was the one who kicked his shins under the table during dinner and sang for them. Techno was the one who protected them. They were his family, even if they weren’t by blood, and he loved them for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second time Tommy visits his mother’s house, he gets the courage to go to the front door. He hesitates for a while there, sitting on the stoop and thinking if it was smart, but eventually, he knocks. It takes a minute, but a woman answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s his mum. Her hair is blonde-- darker than his but still similar. She’s shorter than he is now, even though his faint memories have her looming above him with a kind smile. It’s almost disorienting. She’s changed and so has he. His memories of her line up, however, and he stands there for a moment in shock as she blinks at him and he blinks back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I help you?” She asks, looking slightly confused. There is no recognition in her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I--” All of the sudden, Tommy’s throat is clogged and he cannot speak. He struggles for a second, fighting his way back to his voice. He rifles through his inventory on autopilot, searching for something he can pull out to help. There’s a bottle of water in there, but it’s empty. Shit. He can feel his face heating up. “I think I have the wrong address,” is what he finally manages to say, and then he turns on his heels and leaves before anything else is exchanged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he returns that night, later than normal and eyes rimmed with red, he knows Phil knows something is wrong. Tubbo walks on eggshells around him all night as well, and Wilbur’s teasing jabs come softer. Even Technoblade doesn’t comment on it. He just scoops Tommy a bit more potato leek soup than normal. The next few days, Tommy can feel eyes on his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The third and final time Tommy goes back to his house, he is not alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could make her remember,” Phil says quietly, staring across the street from his place beside Tommy. It’s late, dark enough that neither of them are worried about being seen. Phil’s presence can be hard to explain. Across the street, his mother flits by the kitchen window. The lights are on inside, giving them a view as she moves around the kitchen and seemingly prepares herself dinner. Tommy’s not really watching. He’s just sinking into the light, the golden-yellow tones that are spilling out of the houses’ eyes and beckoning for him to come inside. Phil continues. “I could make her know. If you wanted me to. She’d remember.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did Tommy want her to remember? Did he want her to know about her freak son, and the people who had taken him away? Maybe it was safer with her like this-- unable to remember, happy in her life without knowing that an entire part of it was missing. He watches her sip from a wine glass through the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says after an eternity. The sky is dotted with stars. “No. It’s better this way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you insist,” Phil says, and he sounds sad. Tommy grits his teeth and rubs at his eyes with the palm of one hand, scrubbing away whatever wetness had dared to gather there. He’s not a baby-- he doesn’t cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His other hand reaches out to find Phil’s and grasp it tight, wrapping his fingers around Phil’s like he might be able to ground himself simply by being enveloped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go home,” he says after another minute, turning away from his childhood home and the woman inside. She isn’t his mother-- she hasn’t been for years. His family lies somewhere else now, with warm dinner on the stove and guitar song ringing in their ears. </span>
</p>
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